Narrow your eyes!

And furrow your brows! Concentrate!! This will be very important.

The direct consequence of yet again shutting down Facebook (generally known as "FB", though not to be confused with erstwhile expansion of FuckBuddy) is that you are left with Linkedin as your only social networking option.

You might think that this would enrich my life and stanch the flow of countless links that people *think* are interesting. Actually, no - just as kings and queens have to take a dump too, even professional networks have people who simply can't stop "sharing".

Today's article to highlight was on Unitasking.

First, the irony: I came across this link on Linkedin's "Influencer posts" while I was Alt-Tab-bing through applications on my computer, and I am not quite sure what I was going to do before I found this wonderful article.

Which is written by a "A.J. J." Apparently after unitasking on conceiving the author, his (based on there being a male face shot) parents apparently forgot to give him an appealing name, or possibly any name. Note however the period after each letter (good punctuation - it means the letter is the first of a shortened word or name). Also note the space between "J." and "J." (No, I have no idea what the fuck that means).

(His name is at the bottom)

(Yay, so much fodder and I have not even read the article yet)

(No more parentheses)

The article itself is rather excellent, I must say. I really like the idea of tying myself to my chair to avoid unnecessary walking around and consequent distraction. Too bad it won't be that easy to tie up those who walk around and annoy *me* at work. He does point to other not-so-literal ways to limit oneself from straying past the task at hand, to be fair. The "Tonya Harding" strategy of "storing your worry" in one spot and picking it up after your task is about as dumb and impractical as the Tonya Harding strategy of breaking her competitor's legs. I mean, for one thing, why would you pick it back up? The third method of literally walking while working, e.g., typing a report on a treadmill is interesting, and supposedly works by releasing serotonins. So the annoying-people-who-walk-around may be on to something, but it is useless to me unless I can somehow suck the serotonin and other goodies right out of them. I do not think I will get a patent or FDA approval for that device, which only *looks* like a heavy mallet and a large syringe, but is so much more...The final method of talking to oneself, even just about what one is doing, to calm down and focus is a bit batty, but who knows!

All of this fails to answer the question - why would anyone want to Unitask in this Multitasking world? I don't know, but all men are good at Unitasking, although it is only in the area of thinking about sex. Which leads me to think, why not combine the multiple elements of AJJ's brilliant idea as follows:

Find a pliant subject of any gender or species of your liking. Tie him / her / it up to a chair or coat hanger or frankly any appliance with wheels and set up on a treadmill. Talk to yourself, chanting "I am having sex" to relax and focus. And at the same time, do that which needs Unitasking - such as your monthly audit report or math homework or that letter to the editor.

Epilogue: I tried this, chanting "This is going to be great sex" while doing the deed and typing this blog out on my portable electronic device. I decided to forgo locomotion and bondage, taking one small step for mankind. The results were not  pretty. The upshot is, I did Unitask by whimpering in the doghouse.

PS: "Narrow Your Eyes" is of course yet another quirky track from the ever popular They Might Be Giants.

More absurd than miserable

A number of you threw brickbats at me for sullying the high-art of ballet. To all of you, I virtually moon you.

Speaking of absurdities that pass for art, I also watched some time earlier a movie - nay, a musical - by the name of Les Miserables, whose pronunciation remains a mystery to me to this day.

No doubt this was a masterpiece by Victor Hugo, and I am certain it makes for gripping prose. But the minute it transcended into the musical genre, it went Twilight Zone.

Sure the acting was great, and the gaunt Hugh Jackman laid the male audience's insecurities to rest - at least initially, when he was gaunt. Russell Crowe played himself, i.e. a douchebag asshole. Anne Hathaway did some convincing numbers. 

But why must they carry to absurd lengths the setting of everything to a tune? Yes, there are some nice songs - reasonable lyrics set to good music. But why, oh why, must even the quotidian banalities be sung? Can't Cosette simply call Jean "papa" instead of singing even those two syllables? I'm sure even Beethoven took breaks from composing.

But wait, anticipating the next round of brickbats, I do grant that I am being too harsh here. On second thought, I do realize the potential for immense daily pleasure this approach to life can offer.

Scene one: a ho-hum dinner in a middle-class 4-room HDB apartment. Imagine the following exchange, both lines sung to "So long, farewell" from the Sound of Music:

Ah Boy: Mama! Mama! I want to go and play-ay!

Mother: Sit down, shut up and eat your bah kut teh-eh!!

Father: ***** (fits nicely into "Cuckoo")

Scene two: flight from Singapore to India (any city)

Drunk passenger: AIR-hostess! AIR-hostess! (sung to the opening bars of Bicycle Race by the Queen)

(entire flight thumps on its collective tray)

Drunk passenger again: I want to have vis-KEE-so-da, I want to have it when I like! (sung to the mellow second line of the same song)

And when you see me next, please call me "Caustic Yoda" (sung to the tune of "Call me maybe"). Don't be shy, numbers welcome.

Much ballet-hoo about nothing

Some time ago, I happened to go to the New York City Ballet Theater's production of Romeo and Juliet. What's worse, I actually paid for it.

It all started while, on a visit to NYC, I discovered the TKTS stand on Times Square. Now the square itself is a never-ending parade of entertaining sights and sounds (in season: a naked *black* cowboy). The best strategy to buy tickets is to go late, when the tourist flotsam has been turned away disappointed at not getting a cheap ticket to Spiderman or some Disney crapola, and try your luck with the less popular shows. Not because you are cheap, but because your tastes are eclectic and oh-so-not-mainstream. 

Bullshit. You get good discounts this way, but it teaches you that you shouldn't buy something just because it's cheap.

Anyway, managing to snag a pair of tickets to the Ballet (motto: "Early Onset Arthritis") the Company - which insisted on being called the Date - and I set off in our flip flops and jeans. 

The Lincoln Center for Performing Arts is always a wonderful thing to walk by. And there is your lesson of the day - walk by, especially if it is showing men in tights. Like lamb to the slaughter, the Date led me into a subterranean labyrinth of overdressed young yuppies and barely-ambulatory seniors, dressed as if to a debutante ball. Complete with pants that started at their chests, bow ties and other such fashion items no doubt prevalent when they actually had things like debutante balls.

Shortly, the show started. Various people scurried about on stage on their tiptoes, and that was just as well because when half the audience was asleep - either because ballet was boring, or because they were out past their bed time in their adult diapers

We were sitting way back in the first level, which I believe may have been an "orchestra pit" or something. Just as well again, because the last thing I wanted to see was men in tights up close. Seriously, that should be a public offense.

But I did get the gist of Romeo and Juliet, which much to my grandfather's consternation, I failed to finish unabridged by the time I was 9, as he and his forefathers before him all had. What can I say, the book stopped with me. 

Now Romeo is your garden variety dog, flirting about town gayly - and the way he was cavorting with his mates-in-tights, rather very gayly - when he falls in love with a girl. Fast forward: they both die, after other people die. The end. 

But not before a number of people do unnatural things on stage - walking on their toes, jumping on their toes, leaping and pirouetting on their toes and wearing tights (only applies to the men). I really do appreciate the skill here, but it is sort of like synchronized swimming - very demanding, no doubt, and hard to do, but so is being able to touch one's nose with one's tongue or armpit-farting the national anthem. So what? Art must move the uninitiated, not just allow the technically expert to snigger smugly in their exclusive club of appreciating technicalities. And let's face it, ballet is a statement - "my child learns the ballet". Not getai, that would be too gauche.

Now two things to note about Romeo & Juliet:

1. Anyone waxing eloquent about "The Bard" while also complaining of the mindless triviality behind every romance in every Indian movie can shut up. 

2. Statutory rape - it seemed from the screening that the girl was still being nannied by a... well nanny.

I really liked the villain, Tybalt - he had a little skirt which thankfully covered his crotch. Thus arrived the day when I appreciated a man in a skirt. The woman playing Juliet (who looked like a little child) was also very entertaining, with great facial expressions that lent a lot to her performance, past the no-doubt-sublime tip-toeing. 

We streamed out, the Date and I, into the open and down onto the subway stop after the show. The characters there were far more entertaining than the ballet.

Aunty-social

Our esteemed colleagues in the news industry have, yet again, showed us they are not only retards, but are really serving us "olds". They have revealed what we always knew - people with lots of friends on Facebook, constantly posting pictures, tagging themselves, etc are more likely to be anti-social narcissists. The article is here, and if you google, you get more such views. 

Wake up, news people! We already hated our friends for posting endless barrages of often self-congratulatory crap and in the process making their friends miserable. This article from some time ago noted that such "friends" accomplished this - though as a person with a decent level of self-esteem I do not buy that - by always prattling (only) about all the great things they do, places they visit, just how wonderful life is etc. 

But as I "researched" this topic I realized there are some among us (ahem!) who are way cooler and bucking all these trends. 

First, let us talk about the antisocial networker, which I was for a considerable period of time. In the early days of FB, it was hard to say no to friend requests and many of us took on too many "friends" and over time getting tired and disillusioned, did not bother to actually "network". Eventually, many, including me started pruning friends like they were overgrown poison ivy. (The actual plant, not Uma Thurman, who can grow over me as much as she wants).

The irony is that, if prolific Facebook users are anti-social, then the parsimonious are anti-anti-social. Ergo by anti-social networking, I must have become "social". Bingo!

Despite practicing anti-social networking for a while, I still was spending too much time checking status messages etc.  The main personality disorder this showed in me is that I had no life.  I was so bored that anytime I was free - say between breaths - I would whip out the smartphone and look at what was happening, only to be immediately and throughly disgusted - at myself. 

So eventually I deactivated my account. Life, unsurprisingly, goes on.

Speaking of bad networking and aunties:

One evening, during the cricket world cup in 2011, I was at a bar drinking orange juice and spending time with fellow middle-aged men. I stepped out with one to a balcony where a number of young women were sitting around. I would not say that we were inveigling ourselves into conversation with them, but we were just enjoying being near nubile youth. At one point, a girl said something funny (possibly insulting) to one of her friends and we could not help but laugh. She then turned to her friend and said "see, even the uncle is laughing". My poor friend, all the blood drained off his face. (If you don't get the reference - it was an Indian restaurant and almost all present were Subcontinentals, whose default honorific for anyone older than 21 is uncle or aunty.)

That is when I realized that at my age, the only women I am allowed to fraternize with in a lascivious manner are my counterparts. 

You've been warned.

VD, anyone?

I got a "Happy Valentine's Day" message and was quite truly stumped. Who is this fucking Valentine and why is he the patron saint of smarmy retailing?

Not wanting to handle these tough questions, I flipped one of the three entertainment channel options in my hotel in Beijing (Option 1: HBO - 24 hours of crap. Option 2: Star Movies - Crappier than HBO. Option 3: AXN - Singing and dancing is now called action.)

Anyway I randomly flipped and came across a start-studded movie with Anne Hathaway, Julia Roberts, Jessica Alba, that creepy doctor called "Mr Dream" or something from the crappy Grey's Anatomy (Motto: torture your boyfriend, Vision: many a divorce), Ashton Kutcher the man who is not too young for any woman, and that rather intelligent young man from the Hangover movies.

Anyway, I knew I would be diabetic by the time it ended, but the minute I saw Julia's pearlies I was compelled to watch it. Much predictable "romantic" action ensued and in the final scene, even the flinty me almost shed a tear when Julia Roberts gets home and surprises her Valentine with a teary hug.

That little runt, the kid who was acting as her son, I cried to myself. Why couldn't that be me?

Another timely update from the City of Premature Emphysema.

Manly man - part 2

I do not know whether to laugh or cry at the increasing usage of English in China these days. I just read an editorial in China Daily defending the country's veto of the UN vote on Syria.

But a much scarier (mis)use of the language occurred at lunch. The waiter, after taking my order, came back to ask smilingly "how old are you?" I was immediately on guard. Gamely, I smiled and asked him what he thought, to which he accurately guessed my age. I think this was the Chinese secret police hinting that they follow me and my inner-Lama closely. Please see previous articles to understand my inner-Lama.

Anyway, after this, he went on to comment that I looked like a "man's man." Confused and panicking, I looked around for the nearest exit, in case I was propositioned, and asked him in a croaky voice what he meant.  He then gestured, swiping both hands parallel to the sides of his head (presumably implying I need to start a dyeing regime), and some vague gestures suggesting perhaps that I am fat and or I have broad shoulders. He gave a thumbs up and smiled encouragingly. Thankfully he then left.

So there you go. English has arrived well and truly in the Chinese capital. I am now looking forward to going to the gym, dyeing my hair and making more than eye contact with the previously ignored, largely tongue-tied waitresses. Anyway, frankly, I think it comes down to facial hair.

On a serious note, as with everything else, moderation in scale and pace is important. When you see Indian women with piercings or Bangladeshi blue-collar workers in Singapore walking hand in hand or a Chinese waiter making small talk in English, not knowing the cultural context can be confusing.

1-9-99

So much for the 1% cowering at the protests of the 99%. I think the key figure might be 9%.

Yes. That's right. The august body that publishes the "Australian Romance Report", somehow linked to the purveyors of the Mills and Boons crap, have said that 91% of women prefer not to get e-mail or text messaged "I love you's". Such is the joy one is force-fed on Valentine's Day, which was roundly protested, as usual in many parts of the world.

But kidding aside, do you see the silver lining? 9% of women are satisfied with a not-in-person "I love you". Woohoo.

But then reality sets in. Discounting the too-young, the too-old, the too-stupid and lesbians, I artbitrarily arrive at 1% as the number of appropriately-aged, smart, sexaaaay and straight women that readers and writers of this important news-related website can pursue.

The human race is doomed.

Mow Job

Today, we will learn the hirsute history of the mustache, which is: From Monkey to Mustache: the Back-to-square-one History of Man. In short, having one is a bad idea. 

Or is it?

Isn't the vast numbers of mustachioed villains (Hitler), clowns (Chaplin), dictators (Saddam), comical detectives (Poirot), creepy artists (Dali) et al enough proof that having one will only bring third-party ridicule and first-party itch?

Apparently not. Middle-eastern and South Asian men in Singapore, for example, go around scaring the living crap out of the less-hirsute Chinese with their thick mustaches. "He looks like Saddam," is one oft-quoted comment I have heard. Hey, once is once too many, and counts as "often." 

So in summary, I was going to submit this vast body of scientific evidence to make my case against the mustache.

Then I learned of "Movember," which is a movement that appeals greatly to me in the sense that it puts the fear of the proctologist in every man. That's right, it is a campaign to create awareness, and I think raise money, for male illnesses like prostate cancer. Women get a cute pink ribbon campaign, we go pick a fucking mustache.

Anyway, as I live life on a lark, I decided to give it a go. Immediate social pariah-hood ensued. Family members applied for restraining orders; colleagues tried to push me down elevator shafts; I suspect arsenic in my salad dressing at the regular place; entire train carriages and buses opened up for me, as if I was Moses in the Red Sea. I was in the depths of despair, shamed and shameful.

Then I landed up in India and everything changed. "You look wiser," said a learned economist, who in all the time I have known him, has sported a thick beard. Taxi drivers appeared to think very hard before inflating my fare. I stared down countless uniformed security guards who may actually be robots programmed to annoy entrants into office buildings by asking "Where are you going?" And most heartwarming of all, the female species seemed to smell blood, or pheromones, or something. Score! I have had to lock myself in my hotel room for fear that wild females may start behaving lasciviously with my mustache. Life is tough, in a good way. I finally, almost see the value of having what looks like a dead caterpillar stuck above my upper lip.

Unfortunately, very shortly, I will leave India, entering a plane where no doubt I will immediately be pounced upon by the air-marshal and handcuffed for looking like a terrorist. I suppose therefore I have to bid farewell to my itchy growth.

Which brings me to one of my most memorable moments: a warm, lathered shave from the sharp end of a cutthroat at a corner barbershop in Kars, the Kurdish corner of Turkey, one fine afternoon a couple of years ago. Now *that*, ladies, is what a man wants, not a sissy "facial" in a "spa." So for your husband's next birthday, don't give him a tie, take him to a fancy barber or get him something from the Art of Shaving. And follow it up with a surprise visit to the proctologist. He will appreciate it as soon as he regains the feeling in his...

And if you do not have a husband, I am available for the next half hour. Hurry, limited time offer only!

Hawaii Ai-yoh!

What is it about travel, hotels and TV that alternatively provides unexpected pain and succour? Recently, I did some channel surfing in Macau. First, for a fancy hotel, the Four Seasons does not have HBO. They will never get the corporate business of my future 100,000-people strong Nasdaq-listed corporation. Grr.

Then we switched back to the faithful AXN. For once I actually watched a partial episiode of "So You Can Dance" because there was a deaf person and he was very good. The judges were not, and I killed them in imagination-land. Star Movies was playing "Half Past Dead 2", which was so bad even Steven Seagal had refused to act in it. I toyed with watching Fashion TV. I surfed around and came back to AXN to watch the travesty known as Hawaii Five-O. Ai-yoh.

There is one consolation in the form of that plain but attractive Asian girl. Lissome and fetching. But otherwise, it really is rather like Baywatching in Hawaii. 

What is much worse is that the channel keeps showing the "original" Hawaii Five-O, which is all the above plus a smarmy looking prick with an awful smirk and a bouffant hairdo from the 1970s that, along with the unfiltered 70s sun, just blinds you a hundred times over like Medusa.

Ai-yay-yoh. 

Porn Laden

No, that is *not* the description used by the police when they confiscated my hard drive.

As I recently reported, Osama bin Laden had porn stashed away in his hideout. This raises many grave questions of much import. (There is a place in life for tautology)

What would constitute Osama porn? A full ninja-suit with a hint of the ankle or the wayward, exposed chin? Or perhaps a full ninja suit with just a hint of flashy pink lace on the hem? Pretty boys (I am being neither facetious nor insulting: read this)? Goats? What is the appropriate role for an AK-47 in this kind of porn? What will constitute the "money shot?"

In that lone picture of him watching something on TV, sitting on the floor with his back to the camera, he looks a tad chubby. I bet there were some Big Beautiful Latinas porn DVDs there. I bet it was volume 7.

The tragedy is that, had it been known that bin Laden was porn laden, some bunch of men - American marines, Pakistani intelligence agents, Afghan goatherds, possibly even boy bands - would have found him *way* earlier.

There are other questions, too. Why would a man with three, or possibly five, wives need porn? Perhaps this is a pointless question as the right answer is that men will always letch and ogle.

Bye now, I am stepping out for some letch and ogle.

Troll model

I may or may not have strong feelings about the man formerly alive as Osama bin Laden. But once again, in someone's death, we find the basic bonds of humanity that... well... bond us together.

Pornography found in Osama hideout

Excerpts include:

"The pornography recovered in Osama's compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, consists of modern, electronically recorded video and is fairly extensive..."

and

"Specifically, the officials said they did not know if Osama himself had acquired or viewed the materials." To which I say, what are the officials smoking? Of course he did.

and further on

"Reports from Abbottabad have said that Osama's compound was cut off from the Internet or other hard-wired communications networks. It is unclear how compound residents would have acquired the pornography." Are these people morons? There is nothing that will stop men from gaining access to porn. Why did you think men - yes, I am sure in these cases it was men, not women - invented the telephone or the television? For heaven's sake did Graham Bell want to speak to his deaf mom? No, he wanted to hear the heavy breathing of his neighbor, babysitter or possibly somebody running for vice-president. 

The only thing that makes money on the Internet is porn. Definitely not highbrow tattling, such as this blog.

I rest my case.

Putting the Rex in Durex

Rex: It is of Latin origin, and the meaning of Rex is "king".

Readers may note that there is a lot of sex-related articles of late, but this just reflects the preponderance of such news. 

It definitely does not reflect my sex life. It is very healthy, thank you, in the fashion of famous Hollywood movie "Me, Myself and Irene". With the focus on the (illustrative) "Irene", although I frankly think Renee Zellweiger is a tad beady-eyed. Perhaps that was a bad movie name to use as an example. Just as it was extremely ironic that the following piece of news is listed under "Breaking News" today:

Souvenir condoms rolled out for UK royal wedding

An uncensored excerpt:

Hugh Pomfret, a spokesman for Crown Jewels Condoms of Distinction, insisted they were 'a unique way to remember this great British occasion'.

'In years to come, they will be a timeless memento of a magical wedding day.' Presented in regal-looking purple and gold, each pack bears a picture of the couple gazing into each other's eyes, saying it contains a 'triumvirate of regal prophylactics', which are 'lavishly lubed' and 'regally ribbed'.


'England boasts some of the finest lovemaking in the world, with a tradition of coitus going back generations,' lovers are told. 'Combining the strength of a prince with the yielding sensitivity of a princess-to-be, Crown Jewels condoms promise a royal union of pleasure.'

I have enough for a one way ticket

Life has a way of rubbing one's face in the mud. We never get what we want and suck at what we do. Great writers stuck writing dense business reports (ahem!), for example. Instead you have horrible journalists and newsreaders who are only there because they read Woodward and Bernstein growing up, or think they have a "TV face" or something like that. Like that awful woman on Channel Newsasia who either walks out to read the news without showering or doing up her hair or just fellated her producer in the backroom. Other candidates that come to mind include:

- Most younger-generation "pop" and "rock" singers. Better music emanates from my bathroom. Why can't they just stay at home and "sext" each other? Jonas-es, I am talking to you. (Disclosure: I don't know who they are, actually)

- Complete assholes - like Michael Schumacher - becoming champion race car drivers, threatening their teammates with their massive jaws and completely taking the sport out of sport. When in reality, the really good drivers are always avatar-ing as my taxi drivers. In every part of the world.

- Really good cooks and chefs slaving away at home for no pay or at shitty eating houses for little, when half-assed jackasses cook up salads that make you long to step outside and graze. Les Bouchons Rive Gauche, you pretentious restaurant with the worst service and forgettable food, I am talking to you.

- Fashion designers. Seriously. Just because you "want" that concept involving building materials and tannery by-products to succeed, there is no chance that any sane human being will ever,*ever* touch it. The woman who alters my pant-cuffs is a better couturier.

If everybody in the world only did what they were good at, it would be a productive place. If what everybody's good at coincides with what they want to do, that's be heaven.

Like Natalie Portman. 

Anyway, even as I hear that "marriage is the end of sex" from many peers in my age group, here is a Turkish man lamenting he can't get *away* enough:

Man seeks protection from sex-mad wife

Here are choice excerpts:

"The weary man claims he had been sleeping on his sofa for the past four years in an attempt to avoid his wife who has an insatiable appetite for sex. According to the AFP, the exhausted husband went to police for help on Tuesday and plans to file for divorce with his wife of 18 years and mother of their two children."

An alibi for all seasons...

... and for all the wrong reasons.

Recently seen in the newspapers: Semen Allergy.

A-ha, you think, I am going to make some misogynistic and sick joke. No! Apparently some men are allergic to *their own semen*. Furthermore, this is the cause of something called "post orgasm illness". Choice excerpts include:

"Men with the condition, known as post orgasmic illness syndrome or POIS and documented in medical journals since 2002, get flu-like symptoms such as feverishness, runny nose, extreme fatigue and burning eyes immediately after they ejaculate. Symptoms can last for up to week."

"... that a treatment known as hyposensitisation therapy can help reduce its impact."

"(Men in an experiment) agreed to undergo a standard skin-prick allergy test using a diluted form of their own semen. Of those, 29, or 88 per cent, had a positive skin reaction indicating an auto-immune response, or allergic reaction."

You can see the fertile possibilities, pun very much intended, this opens up in everyday life.

Scenario 1: Conversation with Johnny, 13 years old

Parent: I know what you're up to locked up in your room. It's disgusting. You'll go blind!

Johnny: But I am just hyposensitizing myself. 

Scenario 2: Johnny's frat house at college

Co-ed chick 1: That Johnny's so weird. He threw up after we fooled around.

Co-ed chick 2: Eww. 

Johnny (eavesdropping): But I am allergic to my semen.

Chicks (chorus): We are too!!

Scenario 3: Random post-coital conversation

Female: Darling, why don't you want to cuddle?

Male: I'm feeling ill. It's not you, it's me. I think I'll roll over and sleep it off. Or maybe watch some contact sport involving masculine butt-touching.

Scenario 4: Q&A with famous, yet anonymous, celebrity blogger

Question: Why do you blog so much?

Answer: Due to my allergy, I cannot have sex, so I pour all my creative juices into writing. If not for this condition, I would of course make monkey love to all the attractive women, who, like, are attracted to me all the time, even though I never go out, exercise, shower or enunciate.

Alternative question: Why don't you blog any longer?

Answer: I am depressed, because of my allergy. It is very depressing not to be able to have sex. If not for this condition, I would of course make monkey love to all the attractive women, who, like, are attracted to me all the time, even though I never go out, exercise, shower or enunciate.

Scenario 5: Highly scientific research institution

Scientist: Now, to test you, we will prick your skin with this diluted semen

(Test subject socks the doc in the eye)

Be open to new things

Or not. As the new year brings me another inch closer to prosthetic teeth, bones, whole organs etc, I came across this:

The male chastity belt: CB-6000.

I am speechless and have gone for a drink. Bye now.

Warning: the gym can be hazardous to health

We have previously seen how dangerous a visit to the gym can be here, here and here. Here is one more reason: Cosmo.

That's right. In my marvelous gym today, I made the mistake of checking out the reading material. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to the catchy cover of a magazine, which I realized too late was Cosmopolitan.

What I learned depresses me enormously. There was a detailed, graphically vivid article on how to spice up your man's sex life: hand job. I kid you not, ladies - it apparently brings back the anticipation of one's adolescence. Frankly, as far as I am concernedand as things stand, it is more anticipation than I can handle. The ladies were warned that this is an area that guys are, ahem, familar with - duh. Therefore the educational article stressed the importance of novelty, creative hand-positioning (One hand?! Or two?!! Turn to page 131!!), speed, rhythm, soda water, safety razor, dumbbell(e)s, gerbils and goggles were all explained.

My knees went weak. It was not the weights I was lifting, I tell you. I wished someone would have given me a hand.

(That was bad, yes)

Contagious consumption

A trip to the soon-to-be erstwhile superpower USA will never be complete without a taste of the American consumer's appetite. It used to be all about "conspicuous" consumption, but of late, the phenomenon has become so ridiculous and pervasive, I strongly recommend supplementing any trips to the USA with some time in front of the TV, watching some penniless tribe in the Amazon or the Masai on National Geographic. Because you will surely need some perspective when you see the following in a Delta Skymall catalog (my comments in italics):

For the consuming pet:

- The indoor dog restroom. Need I explain? 

- Best-in-class orthopedic Comfy Couch and Bone Pillow a dog will really dig. I hope not "dig into", at that price.

- The ultrasonic barking dog deterrent - this ingenious device, shaped like a cuckoo clock, will emit inaudible canine-irritating frequencies which will eventually create the Pavlovian response of shutting the dog up. As alternatives, I suggest a) shutting the door / windows b) killing the dog. It is apparently in a stiff competition with the "Indoor barking dog deterrent", which looks like a boombox, which of course is the human deterrent.

- Pet ramp and staircase: you know, for your retarded, dysplasia-ridden mongrel to clamber up your bed with its filthy paws. 

- Ceramic pet fountain. Because the old water bowl is of course bad karma.

- Canine genealogy kit. I thought this was a winner, but it does need you to take a swab from inside the dog's cheeks. If you can survive the inevitable dog breath, you will have to fight with the dog to get it out - have you ever tried wrestling even a chihuaha for something that is already in its mouth? Is all this worth it to know who Spot's mom was, when we al know she was a skank?

- Indoor / outdoor dog bed, elevated to keep your dog comfortable and dry. Do these people even know what a dog is? It is a critter than digs the ground up on a hot summer day so that it can nestle in the resulting, cool cavity. Its idea of comfort is turning around to licks its itchy balls.

- Litter Kwitter - "potty train your cat faster than most people can potty train their kids". This is plain bullshit, cats even cover up after they're done, for heaven's sake, and are not even comparable to blubbering human young ones that leak out of every orifice.

For the consuming head:

- A natural "boar hair bristle" especially for thinning hair. I suggest a razor, shaving foam and a spring in your step instead.

-  Spray-on hair. See above.

- "Hair laser". Really? Does Darth Vader know about this?

Other

- Underwater pogo stick. My mind boggles, too.

- CD / DVD rack - store over 2250 CDs and DVDs. Duh, how clueless is the chief strategist of this one? Has s/he heard of the iPod?

- Stamp out identity theft - use this handy stamping thingy, which uniformly inks out your personal information. "No shredders, no scissors". Wouldn't shredding or burning actually be easier and cost nothing?

- The original sleep sound generator. It does not say zzzz.

- A whole lot of golf crap, sports crap, home improvement and gardening crap and other useless items.

For perverts:

- Video recording sunglasses. Uh-huh.

- The world's smallest camcorders! Record without ever being detected!! Apply for anticipatory bail now!!! 

- Spy pen: carry an eyewitness in your pocket. The memorable moments at the divorce hearing will eliminate any regrets you'll have about buying this in the first place. Not to mention, its close competitors the Video Pen, voice activated to boot. You might as well say to it, "Incriminate me!"

Now the winners:

- The Slanket - stay cozy and keep your hands free. Bingo!! Have you even been on a cold flight and wanted to change the channel but then the blanket slides off you, exposing your muffing top and butt crack, causing alarm and potential pandemonium all around? Exactly. Instead of selling the Slanket, Delta should be giving them out on flights.

- Automatic Wine Opener: effortless cork removal every time. Don't worry, it said "cork", not cock. I think this is a great improvement over using your Swiss knife and eventually straining your wine through a perforated cork. Again, "cork".

- Dog ramp: So that your dog does not have to try the doggie high jump to get into your fucking SUV, you obese, inconsiderate retard.

- Two-way shoe stretcher: As the impulsive buyer of a pair of shoes half a size too small, I can assure you this is a winning product.

Rhymes with hobo

Spoiler alert - but probably redundant

Recently I went to watch the movie that has apparently taken India by storm. The movie is called Enthiran, which is Tamil for Machine. Hence its alternate title Robot, except it is pronounced in the sophisticated French way and rhymes with "Hobo". I will therefore annoy you by referring to "Robo" for the rest of this article.

The movie starts with a hi-tech lab where the hero is putting Asimov to shame. Unfortunately, the opening scene featured a retard - who would proceed to provide an annoying "comedy track" with a fellow retard - in a shapeless pair of trousers and un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt that looked like someone had vomited Bolognaise sauce and melted Velveeta through a pasta maker on to the fabric. Even in the age of Robo your Indian family and friends, apparently, will still torture you with garish color schemes without the fall-back excuse of color-blindness. This is why I regift all items of clothing I have the misfortune of receiving as gifts from the Peeps.

The male lead warmed my cockles. At 61, he proved that men can always get to prance and carouse with women half their age. Sorry, ladies, it's unfair but so it is. Tough luck. This being a movie about a Robo, it featured the inevitable break dance bit with the "Robo" movements etc. My enthusiasm for the future sexagenarian me dipping my wick in some hot piece of ass was somewhat diminished by my fear that the hero - the star, nay, The Megastar - might at any moment keel over from hip dysplasia (for added entertainment, click on the "Canine" Wiki link). Let's just say that the actor's dance steps are more "jerky" than "smooth". Perhaps he was just slyly mocking the abysmally forgettable songs to which he was, er, "dancing".

The heroine was a sight to behold. Gratuitous shots of her in tight pants and bending over after a sprint (but in perfect makeup) were much appreciated, though the straggler fanatic-morons in the empty cinema reserved their occasional clap or catcall for the hero's utterance of signature hand gestures. I desperately wanted to catch them as they stepped out to the restroom - the movie was 3 hours long - to explain that the actors could not actually hear them.  Anyway, the heroine also could not dance, and thank god the Ms Universe finale did not involve a test in this area (she won it a decade ago).

The coup de grace of the film was that not that the Robo was created and eventually lightning-bolted into a touch of human-ness, with icky feelings etc. It was the amazing ways in which, after plugging into a power outlet for 5 minutes, the Robo could practically fly to the moon and back. It will be some time before the laws of thermodynamics can catch up with the new-found expertise in CGI graphics in the land of Indian cinema, where logic is for fools. 

Various stereotypes and retrograde, anachronistic subplots were at work. The Robo saves a bathing girl from a raging fire, and she promptly commits suicide from the shame of her nakedness - what fucking stone age are the producers living in? Indian women are bonking like rabbits and the only shame is that I am not the counterparty - or is it counterbunny? Why can't an Indian movie or soap just once show a groom demanding dowry being handed over to the police; a tortured woman walking out with a divorce in one hand and a strapping young hunk in the other; a widow or a divorcee remarrying; a man having a peg without getting theatrically drunk; or any such socially progressive idea?

An atrocious supporting cast and storyline round off this dismal movie best vaccinated against to prevent infection. This has been a public service post.

Can't be arsed

Can't Be Arsed, by Richard Wilson, is an excellent read. I bought it once, but promptly lost it at a bar. I wasn't arsed enough, I suppose. The book is a rant against "tossers" with bucket lists and a serious case of one-upmanship. He particularly hates "travelers", of which I sadly believe am one, as defined by him - scouring the earth looking for new places, people and adventures, waiting for a chance to bestow the ultimate appellation, "awesome".

His simple point is that we might as well enjoy just where we are instead of chasing one list after another. I am contemplating agreeing with him, whiling away my time on an easy-chair and satisfying myself with watching Globetrotter Ian Wright.

Also, this all reminded me that one day I might keel over dead and they will find inside my chest an emaciated heart, thanks to chagas disease. It was bad enough that I was in the dreaded Amazon without malarone - promptly losing them after ingesting just the first pill, exposing myself to malaria.  Now I find out I might have been exposed to other annoying - and it turns out deadly - bugs. Luckily, I had several cans of Deet with which I sprayed myself liberally. Liberally enough, I hope. Whoa, did my heart just skip a beat?

Speaking of the dreaded Amazon, I did get down and dirty in the Rio Negro at a sandy beach at one point, largely to ogle the girl in the black bikini. Now I belatedly find out it is the favorite stomping ground (water?) in the fucking Amazon for the candiru fish. At least on this count, I can safely, ahem, say that I was not a victim of its shenanigans. The very thought makes a man's crown jewels want to seek asylum somewhere way up in thoracic country.

Maybe Wilson has a point about all these zany "travel" crap that people - including me - get up to.

Notes from the field, part 127

I believe the best and worst, the top of the heap, the genuine stuff of any nation is to be found in its newspapers. Here I bring you the state of the Chinese nation.

First, just as I plan to board a flight, we have: "Many airlline pilots have fake credentials". Apparently, more than 200 pilots falsified credentials, with more than half working previously at the parent company of an airline involved in China's worst plane crash in several years. If this were a movie, it would be called Two Left Wings.

Next, "Public worrys (sic) about safety of hairy crabs".  I think the hairy crabs about to be devoured worry a far lot more. No matter, coming back to the matter at hand, apparently they are feeding the crabs excessive amounts of antibiotics and hormone-based contraceptives. First, let me point out that I admire moderation, rather than absolutism, and it is heartening to note the debate is about "excessive" use, not about use per se. Furthermore, I think oysters are passe - the way to go is to get some hairy crabs, boosting your immune system and fortifying your date with some contraceptive hormones. You can never be too sure.

Next up, we have "Lady collecting garbage for 20 years says it's a hobby". Apparently she feels this will prevent people from mocking her for having nothing, and considers the garbage hill in her home to be her property. I quote: "A physician said Wu may have a psychological problem and suggested she get professional help". Uh-huh.

From the west of China, we have a lonely man "Driving around town in search of a girlfriend". He drives around with a lonely heart advertisement on the rear window of his car, and 50 women have called him in two days. Lucky bastard, he has a car and a headstart on me. Me, I am in deep depression because Craigslist has closed down its "Adult Services" section. Sigh.

From the north, "Lottery jackpot rips marriage apart". A couple could not decide how to spend the lottery they won and their arguments progressed to violent fights. The judge ordered them to split the pot in half. It was RMB 100,000 or about $15,000. I believe divorce attorneys from Vegas are moving into Inner Mongolia in hordes for a shot at cheap divorces.

Finally, from the east of China, "Woman, 81, flees home to escape 'caring' daughter". She was found sobbing in the middle of the street 30 minutes after running away from her overprotective daughter. Her daughter had insisted she put on a jacket in response to the cool breeze in the courtyard.